Ordinary people
by toroj
Summary: Post-reichenbach. The Return of Sherlock Holmes.


Polish title: Zwykli ludzie

Author: Toroj

Translation: Serathe

Betareading: AnimaBaya

**Ordinary people**

The dream repeated itself. John was taking his freezing cold fingers away from the smooth stone, making his habitual, soldierly about turn and walking away across the cemetery grass, carrying a similar rock - heavy, angular, hard - that was unbearably filling his chest cavity, arresting his heartbeat and choking his breath. He had been walking seemingly straight, but for some reason he was coming across that pretentious black marble headstone again. And again reading the big golden letters. SHERLOCK HOLMES. And those awful artificial flowers below... Mycroft demonstrated some peculiar taste while choosing this headstone. Although Sherlock would probably liked the colour. John is turning around again, walking away and again ending in the same place.

That was the better dream.

Better enough to make him agree to dream it for the rest of his life, night after night, only to never ever find himself inside that other one...

Sometimes he overindulges in strong coffee and walks at night through the loud streets of the centre to not fall asleep and not see those bright, grayish-blue eyes staring motionless straight ahead. To never again watch the dark hair clung to the bleeding temple. To not touch the pale hand, limp like a dead fish... And to not scream. Not to scream...

But this dream was nice. Somebody was playing the violin. Sherlock played the violin... One of those pieces that had no title, but a number. Pretty... Let him play. John will pretend that the obnoxious prat is alive again. It's better, it's easier... Something soft under his head... A pillow. Sherlock's scent in the air - a mixture of eau de cologne, some atrocities from a pathology unit or a slaughterhouse, cigarette smoke... - and his, only his. Something tickled John's cheek and he involuntarily raised his hand to touch the soft fabric. He opened his eyes. It was a coat. He lied on the couch, covered with Sherlock's navy blue woollen coat, familiar to the last button and to the last thread.

A slim silhouette of a man standing with his back to John is emerging against the background of a window. He is playing the violin, an elbow raised elegantly. Unruly, straggly hair, blown by the cold March wind that is coming through the open window... He plays lightly, freely, with passion.

John moves the fabric closer to his nose, closes his eyes and inhales the scent greedily, like an addict, like a cocainist.

The melody changes. It's something familiar, it has a title... Of course, _Danse Macabre_... So very appropriate to the situation.

"Sh... Sher..." John's voice fails him.

The music dies away. The man by the window turns around and takes two steps. Greyish-blue eyes looking carefully and seeing everything.

"W-what?"

"Temporary interruption of the blood flow into the brain. In other words: you fainted."

John leaves the couch, spreads his fingers with difficulty and drops the coat. The room is as cold as a grave. Sherlock picks up the melody from the moment when he stopped. His thin, aristocratic fingers run through the strings with a precision of an automaton.

"Sherlock... Put away the violin."

Nothing.

"Put it the fuck away!"

Sherlock slowly puts the instrument on the table and furrows his eyebrows a little, apparently trying to find in his mind a folder for this kind of situation. And then he falls with a thud to the tatty carpet, stained with mysterious substances. John spontaneously massages his own right hand.

"John...? I thought you would be glad I'm alive."

"I am glad," says John in a trembling voice, kneels and cordially hits him on the other side of the jaw.

"You are acting... ygh...illogically."

"People tend to act illogically in these kinds of situations." John helps his friend to get back on his feet and then suddenly embraces him crushing him in a hug. Sherlock stiffens like a mannequin. John hugs him even stronger and leans his temple on Sherlock's shoulder. He doesn't want to move his arms. What if when he does that, Sherlock dissolves, vanishes in a cloud of smoke like a fairytale genie, the good dream disappears and the other ones come back?

"This is how people act in such situations?" Asks Sherlock in a muffled voice.

"Yes. This is how ordinary people act."

And then John feels that Sherlock slowly, hesitantly, almost bashfully embraces him back.


End file.
